


Honey-Kissed

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:04:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson would really like to know why he and Holmes are in the countryside. Holmes has his reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey-Kissed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tweedisgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweedisgood/gifts).



> Written for [tweedisgood](http://tweedisgood.livejournal.com) as part of the ACD_Holmesfest exchange.

  
  


“Holmes, what exactly are we doing here?” Watson’s curiosity finally overcame his patience. In truth, I had expected him to question me sooner. Not when I roused him, no, nor when we boarded the early-morning train. But I had guessed that he would ask when we arrived at the sleepy little country-side station and were met by the dog-cart I had hired, one with a wicker basket stowed behind the seat. Instead, he had held his peace as I dismissed the boy watching the cart and drove us away from the station and along the country lanes. He even kept silent as I brought us to a halt in front of a secluded cottage. Now, however, he meant to have answers. “I thought you had a case.”

“We, Watson,” I corrected automatically. “The cases are ours, or so we decided when you agreed to return to Baker Street. So if there were a case, _we_ would have a case. It would be _our_ case, not mine alone.” It was a key point with me that Watson know himself a full partner in our endeavours. He had sold his practice, given up his independence and his (admittedly lonely) residence to return to my side.

I had let him believe me dead for three years.

It had been the logical decision at the time, to let Watson believe I had perished. Even now, with the benefits of hindsight, I still believe that it was the best option. But had I been able to see into the future – had I been able to predict events, know what lay in store in the years it took me to uncover and destroy the remnants of Moriarty’s organization – had I known the cost it would exact… Well. I could not have known. And I acted as I did for his safety and the safety of his family, as much as my own, both then and over the course of those years. I had done the best I could with the data I had. I simply had not _had_ all the data, and as is frequently true when theorizing without all the facts, mistakes were made. Still, I knew I owed him far more than the simple apology I had given him in his consulting-room, or the more elaborate one I had tried to deliver after Moran’s capture.

As amends went, acknowledging he was a necessary part of the work was a mere pittance, but I believed it essential to both our well-beings.

Watson harrumphed. “Very well, Holmes, it would be our case, _if_ we had a case.” He favoured me with a half-humourous, half-quizzical smile. “But since you have just admitted that we _don’t_ have a case, I repeat: what are we doing here?”

“Ah.” I swung down from the seat and secured our horse’s reins before turning back to face Watson. “I believe it is something called a ‘holiday.’”

Watson stared at me. “Are you joking?” he asked finally.

“Nothing of the sort.” And I was not, although the holiday aspect was only one part of what I hoped to accomplish that day. For Watson needed a holiday, and badly so. I knew his sleep was often disturbed. Even if I had not heard it, witnessed it, his eyes and skin showed the effects of long-term exhaustion to my observant eye. Worse, he was too thin, worn away by sorrow and strain nearly as badly as he had been by injury and fever when we first met. A month and more of Mrs. Hudson’s care and excellent cooking had only started to make inroads on replacing the flesh lost to grief. Most disturbing of all was the change I noted in Watson’s spirits. There were times in our sitting-room where he was with me physically, but mentally lost in some dark, sad place I could only guess at. My violin could pull him from those misty mindscapes, sometimes, but I could see in the shakiness of his smile the effort it cost him to return to me. Still other times, I caught him staring at me with an expression I could not put a name to, a look that came as close to unsettling me as anything had ever done. That look vanished whenever I turned to meet it, an elusive phantom that haunted 221B as much as more easily understood ghosts.

For all these reasons and more, I hoped that a brief holiday might help further restore my Watson, both mentally and physically.

I also knew my Watson well enough not to _say_ any of this. He would never accept my reasoning on his own behalf. No matter what else had changed, he was still as selfless and modest as ever. So I gave him a different reason. “Although I have been back for some time, Watson, I still find myself tiring too easily. I strained every resource to the uttermost in those last weeks before my return. And the best doctor I have ever known once advised me that a few days’ change was as effective in restoring body and mind as weeks of keeping a regular schedule.”

Watson’s face broke into a broad smile as I quoted back the advice he had given me after the conclusion of the Netherland-Sumatra Company affair, when I returned with him from Lyons nearly drowning in the dark clouds that smothered my will and intellect alike. “I have not known you previously to be particularly inclined to heed medical advice,” he said dryly, with that pawky humour I had so missed hearing from him since my return. “I am glad to see that you are amending your ways.”

“Hardly, Watson,” I retorted airily. “But the scientific mind is always open to inquiry. I thought it might be worth an experiment. Besides, there’s a stream that crosses one edge of this property that is renowned for its fishing. I believe you once promised to teach me your knack of casting a fly.”

My gambit was rewarded by Watson’s hearty laugh as he sprang down from the dog-cart. “There isn’t room in this cart for poles, although I see a very nice picnic-basket. I assume there’s gear in the cottage?”

“You scintillate today, my dear fellow.”

“It’s nearly mid-day, however. The fishing will be better later in the afternoon.” Watson eyed the wicker speculatively. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to investigate the contents of this basket before undertaking your lessons in the finer art of fly-casting?”

“It seems a reasonable place to begin.”

We had each brought only one travelling-bag, so it took no time at all for Watson to gather our luggage and take it into the cottage while I dealt with our transportation. The cart would do fine where it was. It was the work of but a few moments for me to unharness the horse and lead it to the crude paddock behind the cottage. My success in impersonating ostlers, grooms, cab-drivers, and the like during my investigations was based on a genuine skill with horses, skill that had I had struggled to keep sharp in my three years’ wandering. I had requested an even-tempered horse, and I was grateful to see that this gelding lived up to that request out of harness as well as in front of the cart. I had no desire to start this holiday chasing down a runaway animal, or nursing a kick or bite.

By the time I returned to the front of the cottage, Watson was standing outside, the basket in one hand, two poles in the other, and a tackle-box at his feet. “I thought we might eat our lunch outside, near this stream,” he offered. “It is nice to see the sun and breathe the country air.”

I made no objection, although I had no particular fondness for eating outdoors, and too much recent experience doing so. Watson’s expectant look was reason enough to dine _al fresco_. We fell into step with the ease of long familiarity. Although there was no well-worn path to the stream – this place rarely saw visitors – I am enough of a detective to be able to find a stream when I know there is one to be found. Soon enough we settled down on a grassy knoll, high and far away enough from the stream to be dry underfoot, but close enough to hear the whisper of the water as it brushed along its banks. No one was in sight. The sun shone warmly on my head as I removed my cloth cap and placed it in a pocket for safekeeping. Watson must have felt the warmth, too. He doffed his coat, spread it on the ground, and used it as a crude seat. I followed his example, and the two of us sat together in our shirtsleeves as we delved into the luncheon-basket. Under the lid lay plates, cutlery, and two sturdy glasses, all held in place with leather straps; while a second set of bands secured a wine bottle in one corner of the basket interior. The rest of the space revealed a bounty of fresh-baked bread, sturdy slices of cured ham, a wedge of cheese, a clay pot of fresh butter, a glass jar of honey, as well as an assortment of seedy-cakes, all carefully wrapped in napkins. I caught up the honey-jar with a smile.

As I did so, I glimpsed that look again, the one I could not put a name to. I pretended to study the hue and flow of the golden substance while I endeavoured to gather more data. Watson’s eyes were fixed on me, his gaze darting from my hands to my face, but once again I failed to understand what lay behind it. I smothered a frown, and nearly lost my hold on the honey. The look vanished as the moment was broken.

“I see that you want to start with a sweet,” Watson said mildly. “Shall I cut up some bread? I know bread-and-honey used to be one of your favourites.”

“It still is,” I assured him with a quick smile, hiding my frustration. “You were fond of it, too.”

“And still am.” He handed me two generous slices of bread, and a spoon for the honey. I slathered both with rather more honey than the bread would easily support, which made Watson chuckle. His amusement broadened to guffaws as I awkwardly tried to hand him back his slice without dropping my own, or dripping honey everywhere. The laughter changed to a sound of contentment as he bit into the gooey treat. Warmed by the sound, I licked excess honey from my fingertips before starting in on my own.

Sweetness exploded over my tongue, but not simple, like sugar. It was complex as it always was, different each time, each honey unique as a fingerprint. I closed my eyes to savour the mystery and unravel the threads: first the light, floral notes, hinting faintly of fruit (perhaps cherry, but more likely berry blossoms); then the rich middle cadences, with strong suggestions of fresh beeswax (the honey had been recently harvested from the comb, a very clean comb from near the centre of the matrix, nowhere near brood cells or the woven sides of the skep); and finally a gentle, earthy touch at the finish, suggestive of the ground that had nourished the plants the hive depended on (not familiar, but very likely somewhere near here, I would need to sample more honey from local hives to be sure). I licked my lip, chasing the last of the flavour data with my tongue, and then blinked my eyes open and squinted against the sun.

And saw Watson staring at me again, his bread-and-honey held forgotten in one hand. Only this time, dazzled by the sunlight, with sweetness melting on my tongue and the memory of wax and flowers in my mind, everything abruptly came clear. I understood that look, as I suddenly understood so many other things. As I have said before, it is a fatal mistake to theorize without having all the data. And for over a month – and years before that – I had been deliberately suppressing certain facts, things I knew about myself but knew better than to acknowledge. I had been guilty of hiding – ignoring – data. And in so doing, I had blinded myself to seeing what might have been there before…and was certainly before me now.

How long had I missed this? How long had I been blind to the truth?

Was I correct now?

Like all hypotheses, it was necessary to put this particular theory to the test, in order to determine its validity. Without proof, it would remain nothing more than an idle fancy – or a subtle poison.

I leaned forward with a sense of inevitability I had not felt since seeing the messenger-boy deliver a note to Watson, spuriously summoning him to a fictional ailing woman, while opening up the way for Moriarty to confront me alone at Reichenbach. And like then, I faced a moment that could – would – change my life forever. Or end it, at least as I had known it before.

The last time I had faced this level of danger, I had lost three years of my life, and left the world thinking I had died. Others had suffered in my absence. For my mistakes.

But I did not turn aside then, and I would not do so now. Adrenaline flooded through me, and my hand trembled slightly as I raised it. Watson continued to stare at me, and his face had gone slightly pale.

“You have a spot of honey near the edge of your moustache,” I said lowly. I could not speak more loudly, not if my life depended on it. And with every ounce of courage I could muster, I reached out and wiped away that drop of honey with my thumb.

Or I tried to, for Watson leaned into my hand, and what had been a simple touch turned into a trembling caress.

I was right. I had seen, but failed to observe. I had theorized – and acted – without having all the data. And years had been lost.

But no more. In that one golden, glorious moment, the world changed. And I learned yet another taste of honey: what it felt like, and savoured of, when chased from my Watson’s mouth with my tongue, with the rough caress of his moustache against my lip, and the press of his body against mine.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: I hope this suits! I didn’t have much to go on, so I took inspiration from the following quote: “Let us walk in these beautiful woods, Watson, and give a few hours to the birds and the flowers.” –Sherlock Holmes, The Adventure of Black Peter


End file.
